Chapter Two
Scott
Scott Jurupa stared down at the clothes on his bed and shook his head. It’d been years since he wore his colors and stepped back into the middle of his territory. Could he do it? Could he stroll back through the gate of no return and greet the gang he’d almost given up his life for?
Guess it didn’t matter now. Santiago needed him. The FBI counted on him and his bosses, Thomas and Theo, reminded him that he carried the power. He broke free—made it out, and became a better man. Now, with the skills he’d learned over the years in the military, he’d be giving back to the community—one that was in desperate need of his assistance.
Yeah, he supposed it’d been a cheesy speech, but it’d been for the right reasons. He glanced at himself in the mirror. The visual souvenirs of his past lay before him in black and grey. Mi familia. A pang of betrayal pricked his heart. He swore he’d never be a snitch for or against the 323—Tres-dos-tres. Fuck.
Being in West Hollywood some days and overseas the rest of the time while on princess watch, aka babysitting actresses, had kept him away from the gang. Serving in the military with Santiago for almost ten years taught him purpose. Opened his eyes to possibilities. Going back in felt like a stab in the back to who he’d become as well as to who he used to be.
He stared at the 323 tattoo on his neck, the last tattoo he’d gotten before he’d been picked up for illegally carrying a handgun without a permit by the LAPD’s Gang Task Force. The cocksuckers tried to say he’d pulled it during the commission of a crime, but he hadn’t done shit. In fact, all they could get on him was standing on the corner of Sunset and Echo Park Ave, which back in the day had been a no-no.
So, he took the deal. Became all he could be. Went to war and came home. He mellowed out. Changed, he supposed, for the better. But was anything better for him? His life had turned into a mission of hiding out. Work and home. No place in between. A prisoner within the walls of his abode.
The question wasn’t whether he could do this. The question became, what happened if he did? Jumping back in could go one of two ways. Either they’d accept him with open arms or they’d kill him. Bigger and badder people have tried. Yet, it wasn’t the same. As much as he had the K&K family at his back, the gang was all he’d known from the time he turned ten until he was twenty-three. Once they got into your blood, they were always there.
Like an addict, he questioned his strength and his resolve. If he survived this job, would he be able to walk away like he did all those years before? At least this time he had a say so in the matter.
Guilt settled in his stomach like a lead weight. If he went back now after everything he accomplished, he’d be betraying his legacy. But, what kind of legacy did a man like him have anyway? No way in hell anyone gave a shit about him. Even his parents didn’t talk to him anymore. Can’t say he blamed them. He made the miserable for years. It was for the best they bought a home in Florida and cut ties with him. No one in their right mind wants to watch their only son constantly try to kill himself, which is what being in the gang created. A viscous cycle of drive-by after drive-by and retaliation.
Scott stared at the clothes on his bed. Putting them back on would put him right back to where he was at twenty-three years old. Hadn’t he seen enough death and violence to last a life time? Obviously not, homie. Because you’re about to put them back on.
“Fuck.”
After he dressed, Scott called Santiago. The details of his arrival had been sketchy at best and he needed to be sure that whatever happened, the 323 wouldn’t kill him the minute he stepped back into his territory.
“Took you long enough,” Santiago grunted.
“Not every day you throw your colors back on and step into a role you thought was over,” he answered, pacing his living room.
“No, it’s not.” His friend’s tone softened. “We’ll be with you the whole time. If shit goes sideways, we’ll get you out.”
“Yeah, about that,” he replied, slipping his feet into a brand-new pair of Adidas. “What’s the plan?”
“Where you’re staying is a safe house with a direct line to command. If something happens, go there and we’ll get you out.”
If, he didn’t get shot first. “Sure. Sounds easy enough.”
“We have it on good authority you’re like a God to them.”
He laughed. “Man, you have no idea what you’re talking about. They only say shit to talk big. They think I’m sweating my ass off in solitary right now. If they knew I was here and hadn’t come back …” He shook his head. “Lights out, bro.”
“We’ve got you covered,” Santiago answered. “Your backstory and what they know is on your computer. Before you leave your apartment, read it. Memorize it then trash it. I’ll send in a guy to sanitize the place, make it look like you never lived there.
Great. He loved his apartment. “Fine. When do we talk next?”
“Every twenty-four hours unless something changes. Then every twelve hours.”
Even better. A knot of worry knotted his gut. “Got it.”
“Relax, bud. We’ve got your back the whole time. Eyes, ears, the whole thing. Just go in there and be Crazy. Don’t tell me you’ve buried the scary bastard too deep.”
He chuckled. “No, he’s still there.”
“Good, because I suck at pep talks. I’m all about the action,” Santiago stated.
“Trash talking more like it,” Scott answered. “I’m leaving in a bit. Might as well get this shit show on the road.”
“That’s the spirit. Remember, read it and delete it. Only you can prevent fuck ups.”
He ended the call with his friend before booting up his laptop. He figured he’d have a shit ton to learn before he gutted the PC. Later, he’d buy a new one. He hated geeks going through his shit. He wouldn’t feel quite safe with it afterwards.
When file opened he read over it. He went over it several times until everything blurred together and then he dumped it.
The main points were simple enough. Putting them into practice, well that remained to be seen. What most people didn’t understand about gang members, is they see everything. Hear everything. They got little birdies in the prisons watching out for you. Spying on you. If Juan had one in Twin Towers, Scott’s cover would be blown in an instant. No if, ands, or buts about it.
When he stepped outside, a beater sat in his driveway instead of his sports car. Fresh out of prison, he couldn’t be seen driving around in tricked out vehicle—not yet anyway. In a few weeks, he’d get his Cutlass out. It’d been years since he drove the beauty. One of the draw backs of playing like he was in prison, he couldn’t drive his beauty. Soon though.
He threw his shit on the backseat, then got in behind the wheel. The thing stank of ass and stale beer. If he didn’t need it, he’d question which wrecker yard it came from. He started up the junker and prayed it would make it back to his territory. If not, he was hoofing it. Probably would look better if he did anyway.
Smoke poured from the exhaust, and Scott cursed under his breath. Great. Fucking perfect. Not only do they give me a hooptie, they gave me one that likes to smoke. Perfect for not attracting attention in Los Angeles, home of every fucking clear air bill ever passed into law. Why no officer, I didn’t see the pollution my piece of shit car was putting into the ozone. And, no, officer, I don’t know how big my carbon footprint is at this moment. Fucking bleeding hearts.
The instructions said to head for E. Kensington Road. The apartment complex there stood out in contrast to the rows of homes. A few low riders sat out in front, but for the most point, the place looked peaceful.
Scott parked away from the scene and walked in. The gate designed to keep trespassers out had been jimmied, and the door hung wide open. Trash mail and broken mailboxes hung askew, battered by years of neglect. The pool in the middle of the complex lay devoid of water, another initiative of Los Angeles County. Ten-foot tall 323 monikers were scrawled inside the bowl, while skaters took turns dropping in.
Toddlers in diapers roamed the area. Some were loners, other were in packs. They saw him coming and they didn’t give a shit. They just did their thing. He glanced up when ruckus chatter spilled out into common area. Three of the biggest, bald-headed fuckers came rolling out of the middle apartment on the left.
Son of a bitch.
“You three are still the ugliest mo’fos I have ever seen,” he stated, headed straight for them. “I swore to fuck when I got out of jail, I’d beat the shit out of your face to help you out.”
Spider glanced up at him first. He blinked. Blinked again. Then a wide smile spread across chubby his face. “Fuck you. I still owe your ass a beatdown, homie.” He closed the distance between them then clasped hands and brought it in for a bro-hug. “When the fuck you get out?”
Scott slid his gaze around the area as Papa and Smurf, joined them. “Couple days. Had shit to take care of. What’s the what?”
“Fucker,” Smurf snarled. “Shoulda called. We’d’ve done you up right.”
Papa smacked Smurf in the stomach. “Still can. Every day’s a good day to celebrate.”
“True, true.” Smurf nodded.
“Hey,” Spider interjected. “Juan’s gonna shit when he sees you. What’s it been ten-fifteen years?”
Thirteen, but who was counting among friends. “Yeah? Where’s he at?”
Papa rolled his shoulder. “The crazy vato has shit all over the place, man.”
He bet. Mexicali sounded like a shit hole to visit at any time. “Oh well. Bet I see him tonight, huh?”
Smurf grinned. “You know it.” He eased by Scott. “Go on inside, there’s food and shit. People who want to see you, man. We gotta jet.”
“Yeah, see ya. I’ll probably be around when you get back.” He clasped hands with each of them before continuing on. At some point, someone inside the apartment had turned on music. It echoed through the common area. The spicy scent of food drew him toward the open screen door that had seen better day.
Stepping inside, he grinned. Home. Couples sat on the couch together while others were standing around talking. A sense of nostalgia settled within him. How many times had he stepped into a house, found people hanging out. Alcohol flowing. Good music, food. Chicas dressed in barely-there clothes. Damn, he got hard just taking in the scene in front from him.
“Scott?” Crystal squealed his name as she shimmied off a guy he didn’t know. “You’re home.” She wrapped him in an embrace. “It felt like forever.”
Seeing her, it felt like it. When he went in, she’d been a kid. Not more than ten or eleven when he’d been caught. “Look at you, chica.” He spun her around. “When the hell did you go and grow up on me?”
She laughed and a faint blush tinged her heavily makeup covered cheeks. “Stop it.” She playfully shoved at him. “Come meet Milo.” She took his hand and pulled him over to the man who’d been giving him the stink eye the whole time.
“Problems?” Her old man cocked a brow.
From him? Not likely. “She’s your lady, man. I’ve got no beef.”
“Stop it, Milo. Scott’s my friend. He’s like a brother to me.” Crystal slid into the man’s lap. “Besides, your mine.” She kissed him, making sure to nibble on his bottom lip.
Not awkward at all.
“Where’s my brother?”
Scott turned. No. Way. Sure as shit, there stood the one girl he’d had the most visceral reaction to before being sent away. Alyssa Ramos. She had long, curly black hair, curves for fucking days, and damn if she wasn’t still mouth wateringly hot. He took in her petite form, the way her black scoop-neck shirt hugged her tits, and her pants fit her thick-as-sin thighs. When his gaze met her amber-flecked eyes, shit, he was a goner even though she appeared pissed.
“What a sight for sore eyes,” he muttered.
“When did you get out?” Alyssa crossed her arms, pushing her ample cleavage up.
“Couple of days ago. Did you miss me?” He licked his bottom lip.
“Hell no.” She brushed past him. “Where the fuck is Juan?”
“He’s out,” Milo answered. “Said he had shit to do and he’d be back later.”
“We should talk,” Scott stated, when she came out of the bedroom across from where she stood. “Catch up. It’s been years, after all.” And, she might be the connection they needed to nab Juan before all hell broke loose.